


The Streets Were Full of Strangers

by HolmesianDeduction



Series: The Streets Were Full of Strangers - A Prohibition Era AU [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bootlegging, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Organized Crime, Speakeasies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesianDeduction/pseuds/HolmesianDeduction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>General Summary:</b> The ABC Group is a small organisation who operate purely on principle - a group of bootleggers who run a not-for-profit speakeasy known as The Corinth out of the upper room of the Musain Café, with all profits going to aid the finances of one Mr. Jean Valjean and his daughter.</p><p>Despite run-ins with rivals, including the notorious Thénardier crime family, the group has managed to thrive in the heart of the city, but things have taken a sudden turn for the worse, with the Feds slowly circling under the direction of BOI agent Javert.</p><p>[Note: There will be major character death in later chapters.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius attends a Sunday night meeting at The Corinth, and discovers that something is amiss between the ABC Group and their rivals, the Thénardiers.

             The streets were strangely deserted as Marius Pontmercy made his way to The Corinth, though it was Sunday night, so he supposed that he ought not to be too surprised, even for this part of town. As he slipped through the darkened Musain Café, he exchanged curt nods with Mr. Valjean, the owner who was working late as usual – in part in case anything was needed upstairs, and in part because he could hardly afford not to. It was, Marius was aware, only due to his financial troubles that he had allowed the ABC Group, as Enjolras had christened them, to occupy his upper room, transforming it into the Corinth. Avoiding eye contact for too long, he hung his coat on an overloaded coat rack and mounted the stairs.

             The lights of The Corinth were dimmed and the thick, faux-velvet curtains drawn, leaving bizarrely shaped shadows across the mural-covered walls of the speakeasy. Enjolras stood at the round table central to the room, his blond hair tied back from his face with a red ribbon – something that had initially drawn mockery, at least until his reputation for being as ruthless as he was principled spread through the city; Marius shuddered remembering the rumours about the consequences of crossing the ABC Group’s boss. He had yet to see him in action, aside from his impassioned speeches and remarkable efficiency, but it was hard not to fear the sharp, intelligent blue eyes and the set of his marble features.

             “We are bootleggers on principle, not for profit,” Courfeyrac had warned him before bringing him up for the first time, “Any profit goes towards helping Mr. Valjean and his daughter.” At the time, Marius had been sceptical – who the hell bootlegs for _charity_ after all – but after a few weeks, it became clear that Courfeyrac had not been exaggerating.

             At Enjolras’ side, Combeferre pushed his reading glasses up on his nose and nervously adjusted his shirtsleeves, which were rolled up to his elbows. It was rare to see Enjolras _without_ Combeferre hovering at his shoulder like a nervous, spectacled pigeon – the other man was his closest advisor and managed the accounts for The Corinth. It was rumoured that despite his reasonable disposition, Combeferre was always packing heat beneath his streamlined waistcoats, and that he had once been one of the fastest triggermen in the city, but despite this, Marius couldn’t imagine the mild-mannered accountant swatting a fly, much less gunning anyone down.

             Flanking Combeferre, and as usual, the first to acknowledge Marius as he slipped into the room, was Courfeyrac, his carefully coiffed hair appearing almost reddish in the lamplight, his lips twitching into a small smile, followed up with a raised eyebrow. Compared to his companions, Courfeyrac stood out like a beacon – his fashionably cut suit accented with bright red lining and a similarly coloured ascot. The only thing missing from his outfit was the presence of his infamous fedora, which would usually be found tilted rakishly on his head, its trademark ostrich feather drooping behind him, had Enjolras not expressly forbidden its presence at meetings.

             So instead, Courfeyrac reacted to Marius’ smile with a wink, and running his hand through his hair, tossed his head towards where Feuilly was cleaning glasses behind the bar, his alert, dark green eyes darting about the room, keeping tabs of who was where and drinking what. Catching the Irishman’s eye, Marius’ fingers launched into a series of gestures designed to allow patrons in the know to order drinks from across a noisy room. Shaking his head, Feuilly watched Marius find his usual seat at a small table in the corner and then retrieved one of the clean glasses, filling it with tap water before leaving the bar only long enough to set it wordlessly beside Marius’ hand on the table.

             “Oh just take the shot!” A slightly raspy, but distinctly feminine voice rang out as Éponine Thénardier pushed off from where she had been leaning on the window pane, a pool cue grasped loosely in one hand, the other pushing its way through her short, bobbed hair and adjusting a vibrant red and black fascinator that rested above her left ear before clapping itself over Bossuet’s shoulder.

             There was a muffled curse and a clatter as Bossuet’s shot went every way except the way he had intended it to. Letting his cue stick lean against the table – at least until it fell with another clatter to the floor, he adjusted a battered grey cap which rested comfortably on top of his head and let out a shaky laugh. “Right. Scratch then.”

             “Better luck next time, eh?” As he ignored his partner’s disbelieving look, Joly’s half-rueful smile belied their dismal odds – it was common knowledge that challenging Éponine and Bahorel to pool for cash was at _best_ foolhardy, but it seemed that every time they were in town, Joly and Bossuet tried their hand at it anyway.

             “We won once,” Bossuet had insisted to Marius over drinks one night, running a hand over his head. “They _can_ be beaten.” He had sighed then, and shook his head before looking woefully at the battered, hole-filled cap on the table. “Of course, that was before ‘Ponine used my lucky cap for target practise.”

             This time, it seemed that their luck wasn’t about to turn, and Joly knew it even without looking at his partner’s expression. Rubbing one of the patched elbows of his tweed jacket, he gave a helpless shrug and passed the cue ball across the table.

             “You two’ll never learn will ya?” Flashing a crooked grin that clenched his cigarette in his teeth, Bahorel took the ivory white ball from Joly and sat it down before leaning over the edge of the table. A low hum escaped his lips, and flipping a wayward chestnut-coloured forelock out of his face, he passed his cigarette off to his partner before smirking once more across the table and taking his shot.

             The clatter of ox-bone and a collective groan from Joly and Bossuet told the entire room that Bahorel had made his shot and then some. As Bahorel's laughter carried across the bar, Marius tore his eyes away - something about the lean, notoriously dangerous ex-prize fighter unnerved him, and it wasn't his reputation so much as the way his predatory smile and half-feral eyes set in what would have otherwise been a boyishly handsome face.

             The effort of pulling his gaze from the game rooted his eyes on the last remaining inhabitant of the room. Grantaire was sprawled across a leather-upholstered booth, his posture every inch that of a scrawny, reclining alley cat. Bereft of his oversized coat, Grantaire seemed made up entirely of angles; even his face, half-hidden under a mop of unruly, dark curls, was angular to the point of gauntness, from his high, jagged cheekbones to the sharp edges of his too-thin lips.

             However, the unsettlingly blue eyes that watched from beneath an outstretched forearm were, beneath the haze of alcohol, as sharp as the rest of him and keenly intelligent, and the fingers that curled around one of his suspenders were long and supple. It was Grantaire – along with Feuilly, as the bartender had delightedly informed him – who were responsible for the vast murals on the walls of both the café and the speakeasy. While Feuilly’s birds and dazzling sunsets coloured the walls of the café, it was Grantaire’s decidedly darker, mythology-inspired work – he had said that that it “seemed appropriate” when questioned by Enjolras – which adorned the walls of The Corinth.

             “It was all his brainchild, really,” Courfeyrac had admitted early on. “R talks a lot of bullshit, but if it weren’t for him, we’d probably not even be here – even Enjolras admits that.”

             Grantaire, it seemed, for all his faults, was too valuable to be rid of. No one had networks quite like Grantaire; he had a guy in the city for nearly everything imaginable, and no one was sure how he did it. Certainly he didn’t seem to _leave_ the speakeasy, or do much of anything apart from drink and add his own colourful commentary to Enjolras’ speeches and meetings. Yet he was an invaluable resource, and so he stayed.

             “Don’t look too long, you might catch something, kiddo.”

             Snapping his head around, Marius opened his mouth to remind the speaker that he was no younger than anyone else there, but stopped short as he came face to face with Éponine, who had pulled up a chair and was leaning on the back of it, her legs straddling the seat. All at once, he was very aware of the shimmering red fabric of her dress, the way it slid up her legs, exposing a span of flesh above the tops of her sheer stockings. Forcing his eyes upwards, he caught himself on the garment’s low, glinting neckline and the arch of collarbones that gave way to a narrow, but muscular pair of shoulders over the tops of which he could see the edges of the large tattoo – a mariner’s kelpie – that adorned her back.

             It was Éponine’s low chuckle that snapped his eyes up to her face and the sardonic twist of her lips.

             “Like something you see, Pontmercy?” Her voice was low, almost conspiratorial as she leaned over the back of the chair, her eyebrow raised ever-so-slightly.

             Marius froze, the inside of his mouth running dry. He knew Éponine Thénardier – more than that, he knew _who_ she was. Eldest daughter of the head of the Thénardier crime family, Éponine’s reputation was almost as widespread and formidable as Enjolras’. She had first thrown in her lot with the Group after Bahorel had called her in for a job as a favour, and she’d been one half of one of the city’s most effective teams every since. Mostly the two of them acted as enforcers and bodyguards for the Group, but it was well known that their services were for hire, either as a team or individually – depending, of course on how much stealth their client desired.

             Finally, Marius opened his mouth to answer, but Éponine laughed and shook her head. “Don’t flatter yourself, kid.” She quirked her lips and allowed her eyes to flicker over him briefly. “You’re a looker, but no.” Rising her feet, she winked and sauntered back to the pool table where Bahorel and Bossuet were nearly doubled over with laughter.

             It was in that moment that Gavroche skidded into the room, his hat nearly flying off his head. He paused only long enough to flash a signal to Éponine, who had gone almost on point at his entrance. It was no secret that Éponine was highly protective of her four brothers, and despite his self-sufficiency, Gavroche was no exception to this rule. Once his sister relaxed, the boy immediately, as was his habit, began his circuit around the room; he gravitated first towards Courfeyrac, to whom he whispered something, then to Bahorel, who ruffled his hair and offered him a drink, before he finally selected a seat in the proximity of Grantaire.

             Glancing back at Gavroche, Courfeyrac leaned in and murmured something to Enjolras, the only part of which Marius was able to catch was “Jehan” – a reference to the sole missing member of their numbers, Jean Prouvaire.

             As if on cue, the door opened, and a slenderly built man in an ill-fitting suit and a hideous – even by Courfeyrac’s standards – patterned tie slipped into the room, his grey eyes immediately alert, and his thick auburn curls tied back in a loose braid that draped over one shoulder. Casting his gaze around the room once, he made a bee-line for the central table, and as he sat down, the entire establishment seemed to quiet as everyone inched a little closer to hear what exactly was to be discussed.

             “Prouvaire.” Enjolras placed his hands on the table, his fingers just shy of the small pool of condensation that had puddled around his glass of ice water.

             “Enjolras.” Jean Prouvaire followed suit, laying his hands flat on the table in simple, fluid gesture. Taking his eyes off of Enjolras, he allowed a smile to turn the corners of his mouth. “Combeferre.” Combeferre returned his nod with a small smile. “Courf.” Courfeyrac winked, then turned to the bar, signalling Feuilly for the other man’s usual order.

             Jehan was, Marius reflected, if possible, more well-connected than even Courfeyrac, if not in places nearly as high. While Courfeyrac dealt with the community, with their enemies and allies both political and social, it was Jean Prouvaire’s words which carried weight in the underworld. When the ABC Group ran afoul of one of its numerous rivals, or needed help from an ally, it was Jehan who smoothed things over or arranged for it to happen. Despite, or perhaps because of this role, he was universally respected, though Marius suspected it was as much because despite his gentle nature, Jehan was known to be formidable with a switchblade and was as unafraid of close combat as even the toughest bruisers in the city.

             “I assume this is about the Thénardiers?” Not breaking eye contact with Enjolras, he took a sip from his wine glass.

             Enjolras nodded solemnly. “They’re provoking us again. This is the third time they’ve tried to ruin one of our shipments.”

             “I’ve managed to arrange for a sit-down,” Courfeyrac grimaced into his glass, “but I have the feeling that they’re expecting to get more out of this than anything.” He inclined his head towards Jehan. “I was hoping that you’d be amenable.”

             Jehan assented with a slight shrug. “I can handle it, but I don’t trust them as far as I can toss them. I’ll require protection.”

             Combeferre opened his mouth, but was cut off as Bahorel interjected. “’Ponine and I’ll do it if ya want.” He turned to look over his shoulder to where Éponine was perched on the edge of the bar, ignoring Feuilly’s dirty looks. “Ya don’t mind butting heads with your old man, do ya ‘Ponine?”

             Arching an eyebrow, Éponine stubbed her cigarette out in Feuilly’s ashtray and shrugged one shoulder. “Since when has a little blood ever stopped me?” She nodded to Jehan. “I’m in.”

             Raising his eyebrows, Prouvaire returned his gaze to Enjolras. “In that case, I believe we have a deal. Do we have a date and time?”

             “Evening after next.” Combeferre snapped his datebook closed and added, “Half past ten. The usual spot.”

             Jehan nodded, not bothering to write any of it down – he never did; he seemed instead to operate entirely on rote memory when it came to remember where to go and when. Rising to his feet, he circled behind them, pausing only to squeeze Courfeyrac’s shoulder before moving on to conference with Bahorel and Éponine.

             As he left, Combeferre exhaled and turned to Courfeyrac. “What’s the status?”

             Courfeyrac shook his head. “My hands are tied, ‘Ferre.”

             “Have you talked to Lamarque?” An agitated edge was lurking around the corners of Enjolras’ words, and his lips pressed together pensively.

             “You and I both know that there’s only so much that the mayor can do about the G-men, Enjolras.” He sighed and put his head in his hands for a moment. “And this Javert is a persistent bastard. I can’t shake him.”

             Enjolras’ eyes narrowed, but Combeferre shook his head. “We’ll just have to be more careful then.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Special Agent Javert of the BOI receives a visitor, and the Thénardier twins prepare for their respective roles in the ABC - Thénardier negotiations the following night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Thanks to my mates Bev and Morgan for help in writing Az in terms of pronouns, genderfluidity, and pointing me in the right direction when it came time to do some period research for how they would handle things.

             In her three years working as a secretary for what the office ladies called “the biggest stick in the mud the BOI has to offer,” Jeanette Delaney had become accustomed to all manner of people walking in and out of the central office to see her employer. No one claimed to understand his methods, but he was ruthless and he was effective, and so as long as the paperwork was filed at the end of the day, no one seemed to question the ways in which he chose to conduct his investigations. As a result she hardly even bothered to glance up when the front door opened, then thudded shut again, allowing for the harsh click of high heels on tile to reach the desk before looking at the person in front of her.

             Her gaze slid up a pair of long, shapely legs, bare from just below the knee down; from there up skin was covered by a straight-waisted, dark green dress, the lack of sleeves remedied by a stylish black, silk scarf that wound around their throat and draped over their bare shoulders. Finally, she reached their face, and was stunned to find a face that was somehow both beautiful and handsome under a light dusting of makeup, dark hair done up fashionably with a series of small, silver filigreed hairpins, rouged lips twitching into a wry smile as their brown eyes watched them with something bordering on amusement.

             “Can I help you, um,” darting her eyes back down to her desk, Jeanette began leafing through the scheduled appointments, “Can I help you, Mist–”

             “Jondrette.” The visitor interjected smoothly, “Ms. A. Jondrette – I won’t be on the books, but I assure you, I am expected.” When the girl hesitated, she nodded towards the phone. “You can call and check if you’re worried – I won’t mind.”

             Nodding hurriedly, Jeanette picked up the receiver and carefully dialled in the extension. From somewhere else in the building, a phone rang for a moment before being picked up.

             “Hello, sir? There’s someone here to see you who hasn’t got an appointment. Yes, well,” she hesitated, glancing back at the newly-identified Ms. Jondrette, “she says that you’re expecting her. Yes? Oh um…Jondrette’s the name. A. Jondrette.” There was another pause, and she frowned, “I…okay. Yes sir. I’ll send her right in.”

             Hanging up the phone, Jeanette gave her one more confused glance before shuffling her papers nervously. “He said for you to see yourself in, Ms. Jondrette.”

             Smiling wryly again, she gave Jeanette a wink, and walked past the desk towards the office door, stopping only to knock once before entering.

             The office of Special Agent Javert of the BOI was at once spacious and cramped-feeling, meticulously organised and chaotic. The carpeted floor was dotted with file-boxes that sat against nearly every wall, and the blinds on the single large window were dropped. Furthest from the door was a large, hardwood desk which would have been meticulously clean were it not for the double column of folders on either side of it, behind which there was a large, antique star chart framed on the wall.

             Pacing back and forth across a rug in front of the desk, was Special Agent Javert himself, his gloved hands – very few people could recall having seen him take them off – fidgeting almost nervously in his trouser pockets. Javert was a man who was intimidating less through physical size than through an impenetrable air of severity that hung about him like the dark overcoat he was commonly seen to wear. His features were long, and held by the veteran office ladies to be “easy on the eyes,” but the younger girls protested that there was something – perhaps it was that his nose was “just a smidgen too straight and sorta hooked” – which kept him from being handsome. However, they all agreed that, despite his elegantly swept back hair – greying only at the temples – and meticulous dress, there was something unsettling in the intensity found in the cast of his eyes and the thin press of his lips, which rendered him beyond approach. As the door thudded shut, he turned to face them.

             “Ms. Jondrette, what are you do–” he fought to keep his voice steady, his jaw tightening as he was cut off.

             “Azelma, darling,” Azelma interjected, sweeping past him to sit partly on the front of his desk, “let’s be honest with each other, we’re a bit past formalities.” Her lips twitched into a smile at the look Javert shot her. “I have news. Potentially big news.”

             Finally exhaling in a heavy sigh, Javert circled around the desk to retrieve an ashtray from a drawer as Azelma retrieved a cigarette from her purse, affixing it to a long, ivory cigarette holder before drawing out a silver lighter. “What news?”

             “Light me up, would you darling? I’ve just had my nails done.”

             Taking the lighter from her, he flicked a small, glowing flame into being and held it still while Azelma lit her cigarette, shooting him a wink before pulling away and taking back the lighter. Shoving his hands back into his pockets, Javert allowed her one long drag before repeating himself. “You said you had news.”

             “Mmmnhmmn.” She watched him for several moments, dark eyes flickering over him, eyeing his forearms – bared in protest of the June heat that permeated the building, his sleeves bunched just above the elbow – before settling on his face.

             “And?” He was getting antsy, and Azelma smiled around the end of her cigarette holder.

             “There’s going to be a sit-down negotiation tonight with the boys from the Corinth.”  At this, Javert’s back straightened a little and his eyes narrowed visibly. “The old man’s been throwing off their shipments again, and they have a bone to pick over it.”

             “Just a friendly negotiation then?”

             Azelma shrugged. “That’s the plan. I’m heading up negotiations on our side. If I know them, they’ll send in their best as well – I’ve tangled with him before.”

             “Can you give me a name?”

             “What’s it worth to you?” Cutting her eyes at him, Azelma watched for a moment as Javert seemed to give the question very serious thought before laughing. “I could give you a name, yes, but I won’t. Not in the agreement.”

             Immediately, Javert’s jaw tightened, but a moment later he sighed as if he knew that it wasn’t a battle he could win. “What _will_ you tell me then?”

             “The meeting is tomorrow night, a few blocks from the Rue Plumet.”

             “Which direction?” Javert had circled round to the desk and his pen could be heard scribbling down every word. However, Azelma only pressed her lips together and said nothing until, with an irritable snort, the federal agent tapped his pen against his notepad. “Fine. Continue.”

             “It will be sometime between the hours of nine and three o’clock.” This time, Javert bit his tongue and waited patiently for his informant to continue speaking, and was rewarded by Azelma shooting him a coquettish look over her shoulder. “And naturally, I will meet with you the day after, in the usual place, and fill you in on the details of the meeting.” When Javert’s eyebrows shot up, Azelma laughed. “Have I let you down yet?”

             At this, Javert’s eyes dropped slightly under the other’s gaze and slipping from the desk, Azelma stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray before returning the cigarette holder to its place in her purse and smiling wryly. “Show me out?”

             Leaving the safety of his desk, Javert walked the length of the office to the door, stopping just before opening the door to study Azelma’s face. “Be careful. You know ho–”

             “They’re my family,” Azelma interrupted him, arching one delicately shaped eyebrow, “I know better than anyone what they’re capable of.” Seeing that Javert’s pensive expression was unshifted, she shook their head and leaned closer, resting one hand on the side of his neck. “Be easy, Mr. Special Agent. Az knows what she’s doing.”

             When she felt Javert exhale the breath he was holding, she smiled lightly and planted a kiss on the corner of his mouth, murmuring “You be careful, yourself – you don’t look so hot,” before patting his cheek and slipping out of the office.

             Closing the door behind them, Javert crossed the room again to slump into the chair at his desk, one hand running through his carefully kept hair shakily. It had been five years since he had been transferred to the Chicago office and tasked with policing the activities of the local bootlegging rings. Within the first year, he had eliminated almost all of the smaller rings. By the middle of his third year, he had reduced it to two rings that had set down tendrils that even he – known throughout the Bureau for his ruthless efficiency – struggled to uproot.

             The smaller of the two, the mysterious and supposedly “non-profit” – as if there were such a thing as a “non-profit” bootlegging ring – ABC Group had been the hardest to crack. They were small, and close-knit – not even their enemies were entirely willing to give up the identities of their membership, and so infiltrating them had been nearly impossible. Despite this, he had managed to track their activities enough to know that despite their owning but a single speakeasy, their networks spanned the underbelly of the city.

             By contrast, the larger of the two factions – the already infamous Thénardier crime syndicate – had a sprawling influence. The product of the marriage of the mostly Italian Thénardier crime family to the largely Irish Jondrette crime family, and then later the takeover of the latter by the former, the Thénardiers were the only crime family to have survived Javert’s arrival in the city. The entire syndicate was run by the husband and wife team by the same name, though rumour had it – and Javert had evidence that it was more than rumour – that it was the ruthless hand and cold calculation of Mrs. Thénardier who guided the majority of the group’s movements, with her husband merely the figurehead of the organisation, though anyone who knew, also knew better than to cross him by saying so.

             His information came not, as most of the Chicago police force assumed, from the Patron-Minette – a quartet of killers, con men, thugs, and tricksters of various backgrounds who made up the favoured of the Thénardiers’ underlings – but from one of their children. The Thénardiers had five children altogether; the youngest – a pair of blond boys under the age of ten – were out of the equation, but the oldest three were very much in play. The oldest of the five, Éponine, along with the middle child, Gavroche, were rumoured to have defected early on to the ABC Group – Éponine through a falling out with her parents, and Gavroche through his willingness to follow his sister into hell itself.

             Only Azelma Jondrette, Éponine’s twin, who had taken up their mother’s maiden name out of insolence towards their father, remained in the active employ of their family. Only Azelma, who was known in speakeasies and lounges all over the city both as a songbird in a blue sequined gown and as a white tuxedo-clad crooner. Before his arrival, Javert had been surprised at the lack of scandal surrounding the deviancy of the crime family’s oldest son, but nothing quite erased that surprise like the canniness and formidable force of personality that they had brought to bear against him in their first meeting. It had been Azelma who had approached him with an offer of information, having immediately seen through his disguise at a speakeasy on the wrong side of town, and the two had been locked in a partnership ever since.

             However, Azelma was every bit as calculating as their parents – he knew from experience that they were capable of being as iron willed a woman as their mother, or as meekly charming a man as their father – and there was no such thing as a free meal from them. Perhaps as a result, Javert had become very good at deciphering the cryptic information that they were willing to impart to him, and had picked up the practise of meeting with them at various locations in various disguises upwards at three times per week – only, he told himself, because of the other’s proclivity for dredging up useful information if approached at the right moment.

             Despite this – despite having finally cracked the ABC Group, and Azelma’s help in slowly whittling away the defences of the Thénardier family from within – Azelma was right: the stress was finally beginning to take a toll on him. He knew that his features were more haggard and pale than usual, that his dark eyes were ringed with dark circles and beneath the cover of his expensive gloves, his nails bitten down to the quick.

             He exhaled, and glanced at the stack of files surrounding the ABC and Thénardier factions before turning instead to the smaller stack of files on his desk. It was slim file, but one he had been building since his earliest days in the Bureau, and now, as with the bootleggers, its subject was finally well within his grasp. Flipping the cover open, he let his eyes flick over its well-worn contents, mouthing each word from memory before turning over the first page to study, once again, the weather-beaten features of Jean Valjean.

 

             “I don’t know what you’re so anxious about ‘Ponine.” Stretching his legs, Azelma tightened the sash on his bathrobe and shook his hair out over the nape of his neck. “It’s a routine sit-down really. It’s not as if we don’t all know each other.”

             Cocking an eyebrow, Éponine shot her twin a sceptical look. “You’re always so blasé about these things, Azzie. It’s a wonder you’ve never had your face kicked in before.”

             Azelma snorted. “If I remember rightly, ‘Parnasse tried one time and we put him in the hospital.”

             “ _I_ put him in the hospital. _You_ made wiseass comments about it from over my shoulder while he drifted in and out of consciousness.” Éponine paused thoughtfully, “Though there _was_ the time you pulled a gun on Claquesous.”

             “He had that one coming – you should have _seen_ his face!” Stretching out on his bed, Azelma picked a battered paperback up from the bedside table. “Honestly though, we all know how this will play out. You and Bahorel will probably play poker with Babet and Brujon while Prouvaire and I nitpick this whole thing out enough that we can both come back claiming to have gotten the better of the other.”

             At this, Éponine seemed to relax, shaking her head. “You know he still hasn’t lived down that first time when he came back empty-handed except for your telephone number, dontcha? Courf gives him grief about it all the time – asks if he ever called.” When her twin only laughed, she arched an eyebrow. “Did he?”

             “C’mon ‘Ponine,” Azelma hid a smirk behind his book, voice mild, “You _know_ a lady never kisses and tells!”

             “Uh-huh.” Éponine shook her head again and began laying out her considerable arsenal for cleaning. “Well seeing as you’re about as much a lady as I am, I’m going to say you’re full of shit. How was he?”

             Before any response could be given, they were interrupted by the harsh metallic ring of the telephone, and grimacing, Éponine picked up. “Hello?”

             There was a pause, and then a barely noticeable tightening in her jaw, followed by “Yes, _she_ is in. I’ll get her.”

             Immediately picking up on his sister’s tone of voice, Azelma rolled his eyes and mouthed “’Parnasse?” from across the room; sighing and getting up to take the phone when Éponine nodded.

             “What do you want, ‘Parnasse?”

             “You’re off the job tomorrow night, Az.”

             “ _What_?”

             “You ‘eard me.”

             “Under whose orders?”

             “Your mother.”

             Azelma laughed. “And who is supposed to go in my place? _You_?”

             “As a matter of fact,” Montparnasse’s voice took on a distinctly sharp edge, “yes. Yes I am.”

             From her place across the room, Éponine saw her sibling’s eyes narrow, and heard her voice shift, knuckles curling white around the receiver. “And what does she expect _you_ to come back with? You and I both know that Prouvaire can run circles around you.” There was a pause, and then suddenly Azelma’s features coloured, and the shortly following “Fuck you, ‘Parnasse!” left very little doubt in her mind as to what had been said as Azelma slammed the phone back into its cradle.

             “Well?”

             Not turning to look at her, Azelma shook her head almost disbelievingly. “Apparently, Mother’s taken me off the job tomorrow and subbed in ‘Parnasse.”

             “ _What_?”

             Azelma shrugged and drummed her fingers on the table. “I don’t like it. He’s _incompetent_. Why would she send _him_?”

             Getting up from the desk, Éponine crossed the room and slipped an arm around the other’s waist. “Perhaps,” she rested her chin on Azelma’s shoulder and stifled a grin, “perhaps Mother just didn’t want you and Prouvaire batting your eyelashes across the table at each other all night.”

             “Oh shut _up_.” Allowing herself a chuckle, Azelma let her sister lead her away from the phone. “I’m the best she’s got, and we all know it.” She flopped back onto her bed. “Besides, I’m seeing someone.”

             “Oh?” Éponine began carefully reassembling her handgun. “You, of all people, going steady with someone, Az?”

             “Mmhmn.” Stifling a smile, Azelma hid behind her book again.

             “What’s he like?”

             Azelma pursed her lips in thought for a moment. “Gentle. Sort of sweet, in a traditional sort of way.”

             “Older or younger?”

             “ _’Ponine_.”

             Éponine grinned. “C’mon, Az. Out with it. You’re seeing an older man, aren’t you?”

             Rolling her eyes, Azelma nodded. “Yes, he’s quite a few years older.”

             Eyes widening in a mock-scandalised expression, Éponine gasped. “A _few years_! Why I _never_!”

             Once Azelma finally laughed, she turned in her chair to look at her. “So when do I get to meet the lucky bastard?”

             Azelma stopped laughing for a moment and stared at her for what seemed like forever before finally replying. “Guess it’s up to him really – he’s _very_ shy, and let’s face it, ‘Ponine, you’ve got a bit of a reputation.”

             Chuckling, Éponine shrugged. “Fair enough, but I want to meet him before you do anything nutty like get hitched, deal?”

             Laughing again, Azelma nodded, “Okay fine. Whatever you say.”

 

             The Rue Plumet restaurant was crowded for a Wednesday night, the red-tinted lighting casting long shadows across the dining area as Azelma walked through the doors, absently adjusting the cuffs on her dark blue suit, eyes darting around the room until she spotted the person she was looking for at a table near the back of the restaurant, and made a bee-line for him.

             Running her fingertips along the edge of his shabby black waistcoat, Azelma circled around the table to sit opposite the wan, tired-looking Irishman. “’Evening Babet. Lovely to know that you were willing to meet with me after all.”

             One side of his mouth twitching into a lopsided smile, Babet adjusted his collar. “You ‘n I both know there’s a reason ‘Parnasse called in Claquesous over me, and it’s not because he’s prettier.”

             Azelma inclined her head slightly in agreement. It was true that, despite his being the oldest member of the Patron-Minette in age, Babet’s loyalty was simultaneously the most and least suspect of the group. A swindler, a con man, and a compulsive gambler, Babet had two strikes against him. The first, where the group’s other members, Brujon, Montparnasse, and – so far as anyone knew – Claquesous had always lived within the underbelly of the city, Babet had once been, in his own words, “clean as rainwater” and was only brought into the fold after the disappearance – he preferred to call it a “misplacement” – of his wife and daughter. The second lay in the fact that he had almost immediately become Azelma’s favourite, a fact that kept Montparnasse firmly away from sit-down negotiations – common practise called for only two people to accompany the negotiator, and Azelma always took Brujon for muscle and Babet for stealth, leaving no room for their mother’s favourite.

             “To be fair,” Azelma leaned back against the back of the booth, “he _is_ prettier than you.”

             “Oh shaddup.” Babet shook his head, the rueful smile still on his face. “Still never quite sure what to think of you in this sort of get-up.”

             “Yes, well.” Azelma shrugged slightly and crossed her legs. “This isn’t exactly the right place for a lady, now is it?”  Babet snorted and lit up a pair of cigarettes, passing the other to Azelma, and taking it, she leaned forward. “So what’s going on?”

             “Well,” he paused to take a long drag, “as you already know, your mother put ‘Parnasse in charge, and he kept Brujon, but swapped me out for Claquesous.”

             “Right. Why put a pair of hired guns and a thug on a negotiation?”

             Something like mild panic flickered over Babet’s face for a moment, and then he pressed his lips together for several minutes before finally replying. “The objective has changed.”

             Azelma arched an eyebrow, her eyes narrowing. “How so? Don’t lie to me.”

             “It’s not a negotiation any more.” He licked his chapped lips nervously. “It’s a message.”

             In an instant, all the colour seemed to drain from Azelma’s face, and launching themselves to their feet, they pushed past Babet and raced out of the restaurant, drawing one of Éponine’s handguns – the only gun they owned themselves being a small derringer – from a hidden holster inside their suit jacket as they ran.

             They made it only a block before a police car rocketed past them, sirens blaring, lights casting the darkest shadows of the street in sharp relief. By the time they made it to the warehouse, it was already surrounded, and as they slowed to a stop, a hand fell on their shoulder, freezing them in place.

             “Sir, I’m going to need you to come with me.”


End file.
